


sunset troubling the sky

by Klavier



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Complicated Relationships, Exes, M/M, Minor Boo Seungkwan/Chwe Hansol | Vernon, New York City, Weddings, Werewolf Kim Mingyu, Witch Xu Ming Hao | The8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27748876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klavier/pseuds/Klavier
Summary: A few weeks after their third anniversary, Minghao sat Mingyu down on their bed and said, “I was offered a job in Shanghai.”The full implications didn’t sink in for Mingyu right away. He congratulated Minghao. Hugged his stiff shoulders. Watched Minghao shrink away from him and thoughtno, but he wouldn't—?
Relationships: Kim Mingyu/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Comments: 22
Kudos: 136
Collections: WIP OLYMPICS: WINTER 2020/21





	sunset troubling the sky

**Author's Note:**

> Totally unbeta'd and written in a 48-hour burst of energy, please excuse the typos. Hope you enjoy!!  
> listening to: Little Bit Yours - JP Saxe, betty - Taylor Swift  
> I'm on twitter [here!](https://twitter.com/klavvrites)

"No one should love

so hard in vain and go unnoticed.

This sunset should trouble

the sky."

—excerpt from Obituary, Wanda Coleman

  
  


The invitation arrives in a gilded envelope through Mingyu’s kitchen faucet.

Coincidentally, he’s washing dishes at the time, so he yelps and drops a mug when the envelope shoots onto the counter with a flash of white-lit magic. Burgundy glass shatters over the tile.

He wipes dripping hands on a towel and opens the letter. By smell alone he can predict what this is. Mingyu would recognize Seungkwan’s bold handwriting and orange blossom scent anywhere—they’re still part of the same pack, after all.

He and Vernon are getting married. New York City. Six months from today.

Mingyu settles ass-first on the floor and begins picking up the shards of his favorite mug with careful hands. With each piece he thinks of a new excuse not to attend. _I’ve got dragon pox. The stars aren’t right. I don’t have a passport for the Portal from Seoul to New York. There’s a deadline coming up at work, no I didn’t know about it until this month and what an awful coincidence!_

A heavy sigh drags him toward the trash can. Goodbye burgundy mug with the fitted handle.

He wants to see the wedding. He wants to sit in the back row and cry discreetly into his sleeve, passing around ugly preteen photos of Seungkwan at the reception to anyone who will look. He wants to celebrate his oldest friend finally sealing the deal with the love of his life.

But Mingyu can guess who else will be in attendance. That’s what he’s worried about.

Reluctantly he texts a selfie of himself making a kissy face at the invitation to Seungkwan. 

MINGYU  
_Consider this my RSVP!!_

SEUNGKWAN  
_you bringing a +1??_

_bet you can’t find anyone prettier than vernonie~_

No way he’s gonna fall for that goad. Mingyu _isn’t_ bringing a plus one. There have been others, since the demolition of his last relationship, but no one substantial. No one he would introduce to his pack.

No one who could hold a candle to Minghao.

Instead of answering Seungkwan, Mingyu finishes the dishes like a responsible adult and checks the phase of the moon on his phone. Only a half moon. Damn. He’s antsy for an excuse to shift and run feral around Bukhansan mountain, let off some steam.

He calls Seokmin. “You wanna go out tonight?”

“I—what?” His voice is warm. “It’s Tuesday!”

“Please?”

“We’re not in university anymore, Kim Mingyu.”

“I haven’t heard a no!” he says, and grins when Seokmin goes quiet. That’s a yes incoming. 

At least Mingyu has this. Life’s a little lonely, but things aren’t so bad.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The beginning of Mingyu’s relationship with Minghao was tumultuous, to say the least. They met years ago, at a shitty party at their over-prestigious university at the stroke of midnight. Mingyu remembers like it was yesterday.

“Hey, take a shot with me!” Mingyu had scrunched down next to Jihoon on the hay barrel and poked his cheek. “Just one, c’mon, before you go sleep in the eaves.”

Jihoon swatted him away. “I don’t fucking sleep upside down.” But he turned to glance back at the barn party anyway, its rambunctious kaleidoscope of sounds dulled by distance. “Do they have Bloody Mary mix? The real shit.”

Mingyu didn’t know—he’d spent most of the night several meters outside of the actual party, in a semicircle of seats, where the cool arts kids were sharing blunts infused with something the witches called _happy dust._

He felt very happy. Must be something to the name after all.

“Let’s find out.” He stood straight and extended a hand to Jihoon. “Seungkwan’s somewhere inside.”

Jihoon made a face but accepted Mingyu’s hand. “I don’t like that kid.”

“Yeah, why’s that?” Mingyu wobbled a little as they walked. Music reverberated through the ground, he felt in the soles of his feet. “I never understood. You both like _me_ , and I like both of _you_ , so what’s the issue?”

“That’s exactly the issue,” Jihoon muttered.

Mingyu meant to ask what he meant, but in the threshold of the barn door he tripped over a loose rake and collided chest-first with someone speed-walking while holding a flaming shot. He knew it was a flaming shot because his shirt instantly caught fire.

Shouting “FUCK, I’m on FIRE” really didn’t help the situation, but the victim of Mingyu’s clumsiness snapped his fingers twice and the fire whispered away into blue steam. A witch, then.

“Oh my god.” Mingyu patted down his chest, shirt still faintly smoldering. He felt jolted fully sober. “I—Shit. Watch where you’re walking, please.”

“Watch where _you’re_ walking, puppy.”

Mingyu looked up, an indignant response on his tongue, and forgot what he wanted to say. The witch who’d saved him was pretty.

No, hot as shit. Every inch of him gleamed with diamond and silver jewelry. Shaggy black hair peaked out from underneath a wide brim hat, which should be an odd wardrobe choice for a sleazy barn party, but complemented his ripped-jeans aesthetic far too well to be questioned.

Also, he smelled faintly of jasmine and honey. Mingyu _loved_ honey.

“Uhhh,” Mingyu said. “Oops! Sorry, I’m Mingyu.”

“Hi, Mingyu. You owe me a shot,” said the witch, toeing the line between aggressive and smiling. “You spilled my first one.”

Mingyu perked up. “Yeah sure, of course. What do you want?”

He left Jihoon forgotten in a corner, but that was fine because twenty minutes later the witch—who finally revealed his name only after Mingyu asked thirteen times, _Minghao_ —led him outside under the pretense of stargazing. They argued the whole time. It made Mingyu feel like a kid again in the best and worst of ways.

Minghao’s words were sharp but his hands were gentle. The way he looked at Mingyu spoke of _possibility_ and, only weeks after that first night, the way he kissed alluded to a future Mingyu desperately wanted.

They fell from antagonists to lovers so quickly, it’s no wonder things didn’t last. That was four years ago now.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Mingyu’s never been to America before.

It’s colder than expected, when he tumbles from the Portal into an employees-only corridor in Grand Central. The heavy metal door deposits him on the downtown 6 platform. It reeks of corroded metal and shoe traffic. Mingyu almost gags.

No one spares him a second glance as he navigates onto the correct train, squeezing himself into an orange plastic seat. He gets off at Bleeker and walks east. Trying not to stare at every little horror on the street takes self-control—but look, there’s a dead rat right outside a bright pastel confectionary!

As he ogles his surroundings like the world’s most oblivious tourist, a taxi jumps the kerb and almost hits a group of women in garish dresses who shriek and shout curses that would make even a vampire’s toes curl.

Mingyu shivers in his thin trench coat and walks faster. He feels entirely out of his element.

Boo Seungkwan, eternal romantic, isn’t the type to hold back on his own wedding festivities. Hence the flashy destination. Mingyu sees the hotel from three streets away, a shimmer of glamour magic shielding it from unknowing eyes. At least forty storeys tall. Scaffolding from the neighboring office building is draped with vines of flowering morning glory that creep above the main doorway.

Checking in and following the signs that advertise _verkwan wedding this way!_ leads Mingyu up the elevator and into the penthouse.

The doors open to a much smaller welcome dinner than he anticipated. Only a dozen tables are placed around the room, overshadowed by floor-to-ceiling windows with gorgeous views of the uptown skyline, where the guests have mostly congregated. He’s early.

Mingyu spots Seungkwan immediately, half in conversation with a pack elder at the buffet table. He hurries over.

“Oh, Kim Mingyu,” Seungkwan interrupts his own monologue to throw himself into Mingyu’s arms with no regard for their fancy clothes. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in _weeks_. Well, I haven’t seen anyone in weeks, do you know how hard it is to plan a wedding? But I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” Mingyu steps back, grinning. He lets the familiar orange blossom smell of his oldest friend sit on his tongue, comforting and grounding. Nothing like physical affection between wolves. 

Best of all, Seungkwan looks _good_. There’s an inner light to his face that’s been cranked up to the highest degree. He’s not simply glowing, he’s beaming. Flushed cheeks and all.

Mingyu adds, “You look happy. Are you ready?”

“Of course I’m ready. Two days from now is going to be the best day of my life.”

“If it isn’t, I’ll make Vernon cry.”

“No need.” Seungkwan smooths down his button-up with confidence. “He’ll cry the second he sees me.”

Mingyu laughs, and it’s nice, and he momentarily forgets his worries in the sheer enjoyment of sharing this moment with Seungkwan.

They trade catch-ups and shuffle further down the table, where Seungkwan plucks a beef skewer for Mingyu to taste. It’s smokey and delicious in his teeth. 

Seungkwan lowers his voice. “Have you seen—“

“No. Is he here yet?”

“Yeah, arrived in the afternoon. Have you talked to him since…?”

This time Seungkwan tapers off. The meat loses all flavor in Mingyu’s mouth. He casts his eyes out to the twinkling lights of the city, just coming to life under a dusky lavender sky. He’s suddenly afraid he’ll turn around and make accidental eye contact with Minghao in the crowd.

Mingyu shrugs. “Not really. A few messages on Instagram, that’s all.”

He and Minghao had nothing to talk about, after. What’s done is done, and all that. Mingyu wouldn’t degrade himself to beg more than once.

Seungkwan’s expression softens into something that Mingyu hopes to god isn’t pity. He latches onto Mingyu’s coat and says, “Why don’t you go check in first, you still have your bag. I’ll tell Vernon and Chan you’re here, they’ll want to say hi.”

Now that’s an excellent idea, so Mingyu keeps his head down low and takes the elevator to his room three floors down.

The bed is large for one person, even Mingyu in his stature. He throws his bag on the floor and collapses face-first into the pillows.

The charmed coffee machine chirps and begins gurgling. “Guest Kim Mingyu! My name is Kopi Kopi! Would you like any magical pick-me-ups? We have essence of sunflower, lavender unicorn lattes, porridge of—“

“Please shut up,” Mingyu mumbles into the fabric.

Silence falls. It’s nighttime proper now, the Empire State Building a shock of neon blue through the window. Mingyu is tempted to sleep straight through dinner until the rehearsal festivities tomorrow. Would Seungkwan pull out his entrails and toss them into the Hudson? Yes. But at least Mingyu would be well-rested.

The haze of happiness that hangs around a wedding is almost too much to stomach. It takes energy to process. Especially for a wolf like Mingyu, with a sensitive nose, who’s still ignoring the dull aching mess of his own heart.

Mingyu sits up and rubs his eyes. For the sake of true love, he’ll stick it out and enjoy himself. 

He swaps his jacket for a thinner cardigan and pockets the room key. When he swings open the door, though, he catches the tail end of a bitten-off curse. He looks over at his neighbor’s open door, where Xu Minghao is fiddling with the zipper on a suitcase.

Mingyu feels all the air exit his body at once. He’s going to fucking eviscerate Boo Seungkwan for these room arrangements, wedding be damned. 

It’s the most awful thing Mingyu’s ever had to do, fake a smile and call out, “Minghao? Is that you?”

He recognizes the moment Minghao recognizes him. Looking up through his bangs—longer than they used to be, red now instead of brown—Minghao’s mouth twitches. He releases the zipper and they regard each other like twin bombs in the hallway.

“Oh, hi,” Minghao says after a long moment. “It’s good to see you.”

Mingyu laughs awkwardly. Hears the strain in his own voice and can’t fix it. “Yeah, you too. Wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”

He also wasn’t sure if he’d feel the same, almost a year since their break-up, but does he ever. One good look pulls circus tricks from his heart. Mingyu hates himself a little bit. How can he love someone who left him? Doesn’t he have more self-respect than that?

Minghao looks surprised. “Of course I’m here. I’m in the wedding party.”

“Oh,” and Mingyu’s forgotten how close Vernon and Minghao used to be—still are—so he feels clumsy and stupid with misassumptions. “I didn’t know. That’s nice.”

His throat is starting to twitch and close. Suddenly he can’t handle standing here, their memories a gulf between them, small talk like pulling teeth.

“Then I guess I’ll see you around.” Mingyu shoves his hands into his pockets and starts inching past Minghao, towards the elevator. Getting closer allows Mingyu to catch the jasmine smell of his skin. Same as always.

He used to moan into pillows which smelled like that. Used to press his lips against Minghao’s long neck and kiss until his own mouth tasted like florals.

Thank god Minghao’s wearing a scarf.

Mingyu ruffles his hair and shakes away the memory by force.

Minghao’s eyes don’t leave his face. “I’ll come find you at the dinner. We could talk, maybe.”

With an uncomfortable shrug, Mingyu mumbles something noncommittal and walks away. Later he won’t be able to recall what kind of noise he made, positive or negative. He feels the weight of Minghao’s attention until he turns a corner.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Thing is, they don’t have a lot to discuss. Mingyu would like to know how Minghao is doing, if he’s eating well and smiling often, but he can tell those things just by looking. 

He doesn’t want to hear details about Minghao’s new life in Shanghai. His new friends. New lovers. His job writing spells as a legislative intern, or whatever the hell he’s doing with his magic nowadays.

Mingyu can’t hear about that or he’ll lose his mind thinking _what if… ?_  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Unfortunately for Mingyu, Seungkwan is nowhere to be seen in the penthouse. More guests have arrived in fashionable casual. Mingyu panic-pivots when he sees Wen Junhui sitting on his phone in a corner before spotting an optimal target across the room. Someone Minghao is likely to avoid like the plague: Lee Jihoon.

Mingyu and Jihoon haven’t spoken in a while, but that doesn’t stop him from carrying his plate straight to his side. “Hey, anyone sitting here?”

“No.” Jihoon gives him a muted smile. “Go ahead. How are you, Mingyu?”

“Doing good. Yourself?”

“Fine.” Jihoon sips his water. Age has mellowed him, sharpened his sense of humor and relaxed the high-strung work ethic which carried him through university and, at the time, away from Mingyu. “This is strange, isn’t it.”

“Hmm?”

“To see old faces again. Even Seungcheol and Jeonghan are coming.”

Mingyu groans into his fettuccine. “Don’t get nostalgic on me, I already—“

He cuts himself off. He already got through the worst of it, right? Or will the melancholic nostalgia just build with every sappy toast of champagne. Shit.

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “You saw Minghao, I’m guessing. Are you on speaking terms?”

“We’re fine.”

“What happened, anyway? I never heard the full story.”

Typical blunt Jihoon. That, at least, hasn’t changed. Mingyu stuffs his face with pasta so he doesn’t have to answer immediately. He keeps his eyes on his plate but still feels the energy of the room shift when Seungkwan returns, this time with Vernon on his arm. A proper entrance.

Faces turn towards them like a row of plants leaning into the sun. A hush falls over the guests. Vernon is blushing and radiant, smile gummy, and something in Mingyu’s chest twists when he looks at Vernon who will always—always—remind him of Minghao. 

The entourage trickles in behind them. Minghao has changed into a fitted turtleneck and blazer, the same shade of teal blue that matches the other groomsmen. From across the room, Mingyu can see Minghao’s whole face brighten when he gets a glimpse of the view. 

From experience, he knows Minghao will eat like a bird and linger in the windows, eyes hungry over the cityscape, nursing a glass of Merlot. If he drinks enough he’ll melt like butter in the hands of whoever is closest.

Mingyu looks away. 

“There’s no story,” he tells Jihoon. “Minghao moved away and didn’t want to do long distance. That’s all.”

“A werewolf and a witch?” Jihoon shakes his head. “There’s always a story.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Later that night, Mingyu goes out exploring. 

He hasn’t had a good excuse to bust out the DSLR in a while. This camera is charmed with long range focus and a gif-filter, which he abused making short films of Minghao’s contemporary art performances way back when. It’s been so long he almost forgot which buttons to press. 

While leaving, Mingyu double-checks the lock on his door. There’s a fumbling noise from the next room and suddenly Minghao’s door is thrown open and he’s standing there, feet shoved in his ugly boat shoes, hair torn asunder.

He looks great.

“Hey,” Minghao says coolly. “Are you playing tourist?”

Mingyu pats the camera bag. “Yup.”

“I was planning to walk through Chelsea. We could go together.”

That offer hits Mingyu like a truck. First he’s surprised. Then he’s angry—because being polite is different from being friendly, and make no mistake, they are _not_ friends. 

“Um,” he says, voice high with tension, and he hates that Minghao can probably _tell_. “No thanks. I wanted to go alone.”

Minghao’s lips part like he is about to argue. That stance is familiar, they’ve fought enough times for Mingyu to identify stubbornness. He recalls the way Minghao used to kiss when he got riled up and almost changes his mind. Almost says _fuck you, but come with me_ instead.

But Minghao leans back. His hands fall from their tight grip on the doorframe and he sinks into a smaller, quieter version of himself.

“Okay,” he says. “Be safe.”

He retreats and shuts the door softly.

Mingyu clenches both hands into fists so he doesn’t fall on his knees and pound on the door. He hates himself for denying the olive branch, but knows it was the right thing to do. He can’t be friends with Minghao. Not when he’s still in love with him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The worst part is, Minghao would _love_ this walk. 

This city at night is saturated with magic. Mingyu is deft with glamours, experienced at dissecting them with a few quick glances, and what he sees is fascinating. 

Outdoor seating areas line the Bowery like self-contained societies. Alleyways reek of garlic and piss. At an intersection, Mingyu almost trips over a discarded dragon scale that winks like gold in his palm. Drunken revelers stumble down the grid, searching for the nearest open doorway, where wolves who look like Seungcheol on steroids are play-acting as bar security. They give Mingyu meaningful looks. 

There is so much to absorb. Graffiti in a dozen languages, honking vehicles, smog and distant shouted curses. Mingyu’s reminded of the trip he took with Minghao for their second anniversary, down to Jeju. Nothing can compare to the Lower East Side on a Saturday night, but—Jeju was overwhelming in a different way. Because he was with Minghao.

He can remember the way Minghao blushed after three glasses of wine, how his giggles fell loosely into the curve of Mingyu’s shoulder when they danced in their hotel room. They had spoken of traveling the world together, once. Beijing. Paris. Morocco. Rio.

His dream was to kiss Minghao on every continent. It seems silly, in retrospect. Childish.

A lump grows in Mingyu’s throat. His pace slows when the streets grow darker and more cramped. At some point he’d slipped off the main thoroughfare and found himself in a more subdued corner of the neighborhood. Apartments loom above. Distant sirens wail. 

Mingyu walks to clear his head. He thinks about dropping into one of the many bars he passes—especially the hole-in-the-wall smoke shop which smells like wolfsbane shots and strong cologne. That one’s tempting.

But he’s lonely in an abstract way, and if there’s anything Mingyu has learned from this broken heart, it’s not to tempt self-destruction.

So he wanders back to the hotel instead.

Urban spaces have a funny way of alienating werewolves and Mingyu is no exception; the walk was engaging but draining, he’s chilled and exhausted by the time he shuffles back into his own private space. He crawls into bed and asks Kopi Kopi for a glass of wine.

For the rest of the night Mingyu sits up against the headboard, imagining Minghao in the same position on the opposite wall. He drinks until he falls asleep with his alarm set for too goddamn early.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Nice hat.” Minghao sidles up to Mingyu at lunch the following day. “You look like Ash Ketchum.”

A laugh is startled out of Mingyu. The sound scrapes against his headache in an unpleasant way. He finishes pouring himself a tall glass of water and passes the pitcher to Minghao.

“It’s just a cap,” he says. Tries to be casual. Like he isn’t overthinking their every interaction. “That happens to be red and white. It matches my outfit!”

“It does.” 

Now is Mingyu projecting, or does Minghao _look_ at him when he says that? He flushes hot anyway. It’s been so long since he had Minghao’s full attention that—no. He can’t entertain those memories.

He can have a polite and distant conversation with him. Mingyu is determined to do so. 

“What activity are you joining today?” Mingyu changes the subject.

Minghao fiddles with his sleeve. “Wherever Junhui goes, probably. I don’t know many people here.”

This is where, if Minghao were any other person in the world, Mingyu would offer to keep him company. Would say something like, oh it’s alright come hang out with me! The silence falls a little flat when he doesn’t say anything. Minghao takes a long sip of water. His throat bobs.

Nevermind. Mingyu can’t do this.

“Well, have fun!” He fake-smiles like a goddamn professional. “See you later, probably.”

He leaves Minghao at the water station and crawls back to Jihoon with his metaphorical tail tucked between his legs. 

This wouldn’t be so hard if they could be cold to one another. He and Minghao, though, they’ve _never_ acted cold. Arguments were always rounds in the ring, yelling matches, petty knuckle-slapping fights over the last Pocky stick. Never quiet. Always blood-hot.

Usually, if he’s being honest, they fucked out their animosity. 

Mingyu sits heavily. His fork slides off the table with a clatter and he fetches it. 

“This is sad,” Jihoon comments. “Just pathetic.”

“Stop," Mingyu whines, drawing out the vowel. "Eat your rice and leave me alone."

But Jihoon doesn’t. He sets down his chopsticks and levels Mingyu with an intense look. It feels like he’s dissecting Mingyu’s inner thoughts. When Jihoon gets observant, that’s when you know things are screwed up. 

Jihoon sighs. “I’m serious. It’s your best friend’s wedding and you look miserable. What’s gonna make you relax?”

_If Minghao leaves_ , Mingyu thinks traitorously. Or if he falls out of love in the next hour. Fat fucking chances.

“It sucks, but I’m fine,” he mumbles. “Thanks for being concerned. Let’s just do something fun.”

“You don’t look good mopey, Kim Mingyu.”

For some reason that makes Mingyu even sadder. He slumps in his seat and changes the subject. “Do you know which activity Vernon and Seungkwan chose?”

Jihoon squints at him but lets it slide for now. “Nah. Haven’t heard. They might be splitting up.”

“I’ll go ask.” Mingyu tosses his napkin on the table. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“All the activities are full, actually.” Seungkwan gives him a demure smile. “Except the Food Tour of Lower Manhattan. I’ll add your name to that list.”

“Okay. Can you add Jihoon too?”

Seungkwan swipes on his tablet for a moment. “Oops, looks like he signed up for the Central Park tour already. Sorry, Mingyu.”

Weird. Whatever. Suspiciously, Mingyu takes a peek at the tablet, but Vernon distracts Seungkwan at the perfect moment to tilt the screen away from him. An auntie—from Vernon’s side, based on her distinctive elf ears—brushes past and squeezes Mingyu’s shoulders as she goes, already drunk and giggly and flirting with any younger man she sees.

Ears hot, Mingyu starts backtracking to chew out Jihoon when Seungkwan calls, “Oh, Mingyu wait!”

He hurries back. “Yes?”

Seungkwan lowers his voice and bats his eyelashes. The picture of innocence. “Minghao is on that tour, too. Is that okay? Or should I switch him and pretend it was a mistake?”

Mingyu bares his teeth. Boo fucking Seungkwan. He knows Mingyu won’t deliberately inconvenience someone, knows how to strike at Mingyu’s strengths—his politeness—and come out on top. Curse their years together.

“It’s fine,” he says. Easy breezy.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Mingyu mistakenly believed that _Minghao_ meant _Minghao and Junhui_. It doesn’t. The group that congregates in the lobby after lunch is composed of himself, Minghao, and a mixed gaggle of older women. Like, grandmother-old. Mingyu is equally charmed and terrified. How the fuck’s he going to avoid Minghao like this?

Their tour guide is young and handsome and introduces himself as Yixing. He smells like ice and dust—vampire. The women coo at his introduction and cackle at his jokes. Mingyu purses his lips judgementally, accidentally making eye contact with Minghao as he does so.

Unfortunately Minghao takes that as a cue to fall into step beside him as they walk west. Mingyu dreads the upcoming conversation. Squares his shoulders and straightens his spine. Fortifies his defenses.

But Minghao just gives him a tiny little smile and says nothing, content to listen idly as Yixing waxes poetic about cannolis and Chinatown, one of the last New York City neighborhoods to resist gentrification. 

The day is cool and bright, the sky cloudless. Things are a smidgen quieter than last night, for which Mingyu is grateful.

Their first stop is for gelato and cannolis from an umbrella stand in Little Italy. Their second stop is for char siu bao. Passing the steaming bun from hand to hand, Mingyu crinkles the protective paper so badly that it rips and he almost drops his treasure straight into the gutter. Solution? He eats it piping hot, breathing fast and hiding his half-open mouth with one hand.

Minghao gets one look at him and bursts out laughing. 

That shatters the lingering tension. They fall into a more comfortable conversation, engaging if not friendly, with Mingyu chasing the taste of that laughter. One giggle and he still perks up like a goddamn puppy. After all this time.

Yixing points out a hidden speakeasy, a nest of wild phoenixes in the eaves of a Duane Reade, a gilded plaque marking the former apartment of the most famous goblin poet who ever lived. There seems to be a fun historical fact about every brick in this neighborhood. Mingyu feels like the tributaries of history and fantasy have met and now he’s wading through their combined river, trying to fish.

Mingyu offers to take Minghao’s photo in Chatham Square. Then again underneath the massive ornamental dragon hanging above Canal St. It requires them to linger in the crosswalk until the light blinks red—which consequently makes Yixing look like he’s going to cry—but they succeed. 

One day, Mingyu wants to be able to look back on these photos and smile with his whole face. He wants to feel fond over his time with Minghao, not bitter.

He doesn’t have the energy to be angry anymore.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Mingyu squints at the bubble tea menu. “Do you want to split something?”

Neither of them are huge fans of milk tea, but this fancy white café is the last stop, and Mingyu would feel bad not ordering anything at all. Yixing is beaming like he saved the best for last.

A strong breeze rattles the trees against the window. Mingyu glances outside, where thick gray clouds are brewing over the Hudson. So much for beautiful weather.

“Sure,” Minghao says easily, then blurts out, “Wait. I have to tell you something.” Hesitates when Mingyu raises an eyebrow at him. “I moved back to Seoul two weeks ago. The legislator I worked for retired and I didn't want to stay on.”

“Okay,” Mingyu replies automatically despite the way his heart seizes. “That's... nice. Good for you.”

He thinks he still knows how to read Minghao’s silences. This one tastes crestfallen, a little resigned. Mingyu can’t think of a damned thing to say that isn’t _so what was the point of leaving me_. He approaches the cashier.

Mingyu orders a hot Hokkaido milk tea no bubbles half sugar and carries it all the way back to Minghao before realizing it’s Minghao’s preferred order. He still remembers. It makes him freeze up, embarrassed and awkward and a little regretful that he offered to share in the first place.

His dumb, soft heart. Oh well. It would be stupid to pretend not to know each other. 

“Thanks.” Minghao tries a sip and passes it back. “Mm, it’s good.”

Mingyu agrees—the flavor is sweet and soothing with a subtle aftertaste. He lets the warmth soothe his cold hands for a moment. Minghao is staring at him funny.

“You’ve got…” Minghao lifts a hand to Mingyu’s face, sending an anticipatory thrill up Mingyu’s spine, before abruptly dropping it. “Foam.” He snaps his fingers and averts his eyes. “Nevermind. I got it.”

Mingyu reaches up to touch his own cheek. Clean and smooth. Awkwardly, Minghao clears his throat and fiddles with his scarf, tugging the silk away from his neck for a brief moment. A flash of the scar on his jugular is visible, a clean imprint of Mingyu’s teeth.

Fuck.

Mingyu says nothing at all. The walk back to the hotel is quiet. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


A few weeks after their third anniversary, Minghao had sat Mingyu down on their bed—because like an _asshole,_ Minghao did this in their shared space—and said, “I was offered a job in Shanghai.”

The full implications didn’t sink in for Mingyu right away. He congratulated Minghao. Hugged his stiff shoulders. Watched Minghao shrink away from him and thought _no, but he wouldn’t—_?

Mingyu made him spell it out. Afterwards, he didn’t cry. He sat on the bed wrapped in a silence thicker than death, watching the love of his life mutter spells under his breath as clothes and toiletries flew into a tote bag. He stared at the mark on Minghao’s neck that was supposed to mean _commitment_ . Supposed to mean _we love each other_.

Minghao had asked so nicely for that bite. On this bed, only a few months prior, gasping into Mingyu’s mouth, moaning, “Please, please—“

Werewolves are prone to angry outbursts, everyone says. They always choose to fight.

But Mingyu hadn’t fought when Minghao left. He sat silently and let Minghao disappear from his life in a literal puff of smoke. That’s what he regrets most, sometimes. Not begging when it might’ve mattered.

  
  
  
  
  
  


During the rush of the rehearsal dinner, fae photographers flutter in the rafters, fulfilling the betrothed couple’s covert mission to Take Ugly Photos of Everyone We Know For Future Blackmail Purposes.

Mingyu gets tipsy. 

Not drunk. No, he’s only had three beers and a shot of Bloody Mary with Jihoon that he sourly regrets. Just not-sober enough to join three line dances and then feel gently overwhelmed by the growing energy of the party. Charmed alcohol flows freely. Though the wedding is tomorrow, next on the itinerary is a karaoke session uptown and absolutely no one seems to be saving their debauchery for the reception. When Mingyu’s biceps are felt up by the third older woman in a row, he decides he’s _done_.

He takes his phone to a corner window and tries to look busy. Screws around on a dating app for a few minutes, replies to Seokmin checking in. Mingyu snaps a few shots of the skyline and thinks about bringing his camera up to the penthouse. 

Of course, Minghao finds him.

Mingyu’s been surreptitiously watching him all night. Minghao dancing with Junhui, throwing his head back with laughter, popping whole olives into his mouth and sucking the pits raw—Mingyu’s seen it all. He gave up on not looking.

“Can we talk?” Minghao opens bluntly. He swirls wine in his glass, fingers like the elegant neck of a crane. “I mean. For real.”

Mingyu reluctantly turns from the window. “What is there to say.”

“I’m sorry,” the apology leaves his mouth in a sigh. “I know it’s too late, and maybe it doesn’t mean anything now. But I am.”

It takes all of Mingyu’s willpower not to immediately forgive him. He’s sick of being angry, yes—but he owes it to himself to at least get some clarity. 

“What, exactly, are you sorry for?” Mingyu asks carefully.

“How I left things.” Minghao hesitates. “Leaving things, in general. I should’ve—“ His eyes slant towards the party, like he’s looking for a quick escape, like he can’t confront what he’s about to say head-on. “I should’ve asked you to come with me. I was just afraid you’d say no.”

Mingyu lets those words settle like stones in his stomach, filling him with weighty resentment. Disbelief. Underneath that—devoted, unyielding, bittersweet hope. 

But it’s been almost a year. Hope solves nothing. 

He swallows until the tightness in his throat is soothed enough to speak. “Minghao,” he says. “That fucking sucks to hear. Because I _would’ve_ said yes. I would’ve followed you anywhere you wanted to go.”

Mingyu walks away. Straight to the elevator and down to his room, where he runs the shower hot enough to burn his skin.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Luckily Mingyu finds Seungkwan at the karaoke event later.

Every wedding attendee under 50 is here—and taking the uptown F to Herald Square with a group of glamoured elves, witches, vampires, and werewolves will certainly be the most _chaotic_ part of this weekend—but Mingyu doesn’t really feel like partying. Friend obligation, though. Pack obligation.

A hint of wolfsbane hangs around Seungkwan’s collar. He has the glassy eyes to match. When he spots Mingyu in the foyer, rounding out their expansive party, he wades through the crowd to grab his wrist.

“You! Let’s _sing_!” Seungkwan shouts. “Remember the song our parents used to make us strip naked and dance to when we were kids, what’s the—“

“Yes,” Mingyu says loudly. Several guests are already snickering in their direction. Dammit Boo Seungkwan. “I remember! Let’s sing it.” He glances up to the front desk, where their reservations are being confirmed by Vernon’s sister. “Are you having fun?”

“So much.” Seungkwan sighs and sags against his shoulder. “Oh my god, Mingyu, love is amazing. I want another wedding already.”

Mingyu tries to feel nothing but rosey happiness for his friend. “That’s great,” he says sincerely, trying to snap a secret photo of Seungkwan’s ruddy cheeks. “Just tell Vernon, you wanna get married again next year.”

“I’m getting _married_.” Seungkwan turns and hits Mingyu’s side as if he just realized this is true. “Tomorrow! I—oh, we’re going to the rooms now. Will you piggyback me?”

Mingyu beams and pats his shoulder. “Jump on, big boy.”

Karaoke is a great release of tension for Mingyu and a great party activity for Seungkwan. As the grooms-to-be, he and Vernon constantly swap rooms, spending time with every friend and family member present, buying snacks and shots freely.

They’re so generous it’s sickening. Helps when Vernon is a distant relative of the elvish monarchy and therefore fucking loaded.

Mingyu is coaxed into playing pack mule for Seungkwan several times.

Once, Seungkwan directs him down the long hallway of doors and throws open one at random to yell at the inhabitants. Minghao is just inside, eyes wide at the interruption. Junhui and Soonyoung are belting SHINee like their lives depend on it in the background—but for a moment the whole world is simply Mingyu in the doorway, staring at Minghao.

Until Seungkwan screams, “Noona neomu yeppeo!” and dives off his back. The party rushes inward.

Mingyu makes an excuse about using the bathroom to shake Seungkwan off. He splashes cold water in his face and hunts down the room where Jihoon and Chan are calmly bobbing their heads to IU. He steals the mic for Gangnam Style and dances so hard he chokes on his own breathless laughter, overriding old memories with new ones.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The morning of the actual wedding, Mingyu is probably one of the few guests who _doesn’t_ wake up hungover. 

So he takes a brisk walk outside for coffee. This early, his breath fogs in front of him. The streets are filthy on a Sunday morning, the people sleepier, the incessant noise a decibel lower. He walks slowly down a near-empty St Marks and enjoys the New York City version of peace.

Mingyu makes it three steps inside the nearest coffeeshop, eyes tilted to the wooden menu above the cash register, before his nose alerts him to supernatural company.

Shit. Junhui is sitting at a sun-drenched wooden table in the corner, an umbrella at his feet, sipping what looks like a blood latte. What are the _odds_? He catches Mingyu’s eye and waves, then points to the empty seat across from him. Obnoxiously he jabs his finger there until Mingyu gives him a weak smile and nod.

Once again, politeness will be his downfall.

Mingyu takes his stupid iced coffee to Junhui’s table and prepares for an uncomfortable conversation. Junhui belongs to Minghao, that’s clear as day. They’ve been friends longer than Mingyu has even known Minghao. Talking to him feels oddly like talking to Minghao’s overprotective baby brother—who is also immortal and could rip Mingyu’s throat out in less than a second.

Needless to say, they haven’t spent much time together since the break-up.

“Good morning,” Junhui sing-songs. 

Mingyu sips his coffee. “Hey.”

“It’s not weird if we chat, right? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Mingyu nods. “It’s not—it’s not that weird.” He’s surprised to discover that he means it. “We can be friends still.”

“But you can’t be friends with Minghao.”

Mingyu exhales slowly. Fine, they’re discussing it right off the bat. Not what he wanted out of this peaceful morning. But fine.

“No,” he admits. “I can’t.”

“Have you forgiven him yet?” Junhui sets his fangs idly against his metal straw like a child might chew their fork. It could be a threat or just an endearing habit, it’s hard to tell with Junhui sometimes.

“I don’t know.”

Junhui makes a thoughtful humming noise. “Okay. Well, I think you should know he hasn’t seen anyone else since.”

“Don’t really care,” Mingyu lies. “Also, that’s. None of my business.”

“It is your business,” Junhui insists. “I think you guys should talk.”

“We _have_.”

Junhui doesn’t say anything at first. He goes quiet for so long that Mingyu thinks the conversation is over, prepares an excuse to leave that hopefully doesn’t make it sound like he’s running away. 

Then Junhui grabs the umbrella from the floor and hands it to Mingyu. Mingyu accepts it with a question in his face.

Junhui says, “Sometimes love is terrifying. Even when it’s real—especially when it’s real. I hope you can understand that Minghao hasn’t been loved by many people.” His body blurs for half a second and suddenly his coat is on. He grins at Mingyu. “You’ll need the umbrella walking back. It’s about to rain.”

“Wait, but this is yours…” Mingyu trails off feebly. Junhui is already gone.

He peers out the window just in time to see the first raindrops splatter the sidewalk.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The ceremony takes place in a Central Park meadow. In a word, it’s lavish.

Mingyu does cry. He can’t help it. Seungkwan wears traditional elvish robes, gold down to his bare feet, and sniffle-sobs throughout the entire exchange of vows. Vernon is smiling so hard it looks painful. A gorgeous arch of blooming bougainvillea twines above their heads, gilded by the setting sun.

(The rain cleared up about an hour before the ceremony. Of course it would take a powerful witch to reverse the winds over an entire city, but. Minghao’s always been strong.)

Mingyu sits in the back with Jihoon. He is careful not to let his eyes linger too far left, where Minghao is celestial and lovely in silver. His hair, threaded with light, is hypnotic enough that Mingyu looks. Again and again. Until their eyes accidentally meet and regret is so red-hot in his stomach that Mingyu has to turn away immediately. 

He thinks about what Junhui said. What Minghao said before that. He wants… He wishes…

At the end of the ceremony, everyone stands clapping and whooping and laughing, and Mingyu is almost bowled over by the energy of hundreds of happy people. A grin splits his face. He turns to clap Jihoon on the shoulder but discovers that Jihoon has slipped away towards Junhui’s seat, two rows ahead. Their heads are bent close together. From this angle, he can tell Jihoon’s cheeks are lifted in a smile.

Good for them, Mingyu thinks.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The reception conquers the meadow. A makeshift dance floor has been charmed out of nearby rocks, effortlessly smooth and inviting. A buffet table is refilled every thirty minutes. It seems impossible that the city is just beyond this bubble of paradise.

For the first time all weekend, Mingyu spots Seungcheol and Jeonghan. They’re splitting appetizer pastries over a side table dripping with white roses. Mingyu makes a note to go say hello later and snags a glass of wine from the bar near the treeline—then a second glass when two elf diplomats proposition him to dance, one right after the other. He turns both down.

As daylight fades, cheerful jar-lights wink into existence at Mingyu’s eye level. He pushes a few upwards, boosting their magic, so they don’t smack him in the forehead. Very inconvenient. Jihoon and Junhui join him momentarily before moving along for food. The crowd flows along a current of joy.

Vernon and Seungkwan throw the bouquet together. Mingyu deliberately doesn’t look, but he hears a happy screech of “ _Xu_ _Minghao_?!” and snorts. Of course. 

But Mingyu refuses to spend the reception juggling his complicated feelings. He takes a deep breath, orders a third glass of wine, and accepts the hand of the next man who offers him a dance. He’s shorter than Mingyu but more muscular and less prone to smiles. Waltzes like a dream.

“Your hair is lovely,” says the man in between steps.

“Thanks,” Mingyu says, “I did it myself.”

The man is pretty, but… Mingyu quickly learns that he’s a boring conversationalist and smells like freshly cut grass. Pleasant but not Mingyu’s preferred type. Werewolves have a sense about that sort of thing, you know? He excuses himself from the company, feeling light on his feet and like he’s finally relaxing, at least.

A young girl in pigtails trips over her own feet approaching Mingyu at the buffet table. She has grass stains on her dress. There’s a glittery purple substance on her nose—most likely ice cream. 

She extends her hand very sweetly. “Excuse me,” she says. “May I… may we have…” Her face crumples into confusion and she glances back at presumably her family. Soonyoung is sitting among them. He blows Mingyu an exaggerated kiss. The little girl finishes, “I forgot what to say. Wanna dance?”

“It would be my honor,” Mingyu dips low to accept her hand.

They boogie on the dance floor. It’s the most carefree fun he’s had in _weeks_.

After Mingyu chaperones the girl back to her family, who thank him for his kindness, he looks for an empty chair to collapse into. He’s worn out and in need of further wine consumption. Fatefully, he spots Minghao sitting alone, semi-shrouded in shadow. Two full glasses collect dust on the table in front of him. 

Mingyu hesitates. Should he? Will he? 

Yes. Always.

Mingyu sits. Minghao gives him a shy, uncertain smile and offers one of the drinks. They clink their glasses together in a private toast—just like old times. He can almost pretend they’re in Jeju right now. He can almost pretend they’re still in love.

“I’m sorry for walking away last night,” Mingyu says. He swirls his wine and thinks, too late, that it’s a very Minghao thing to do. “It was rude.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

Mingyu shrugs. “I needed to anyway. I want us to move on.”

“Do you?” Minghao sets down his glass too hard and the table shudders. He pauses, shifting to better face Mingyu, and he’s never looked more beautiful or untouchable. “Is that what you want, Mingyu?”

“Don’t ask _that_ ,” he says sharply. “You should’ve asked me what I wanted before you moved to Shanghai.”

Immediately Mingyu wants to eat his words. That’s too vulnerable, too raw to be polite, and Minghao doesn’t deserve to see this side of him anymore. He presses the pads of his fingers onto his wineglass and stares at the fine silver sketches left behind.

Minghao’s throat bobs but he doesn’t speak for a moment. He’s slumped backwards a little, looking defeated.

“I know,” Minghao whispers.

He blinks up at the floating lights and Mingyu realizes his eyes are bloodshot—he’s trying not to cry.

Minghao drains his glass of wine. “The worst thing I’ve ever done is give up on our relationship.” His voice breaks. “I regretted it as soon as I left. You didn’t… you deserved better.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“I think, in a really fucked up way, I was scared of losing you.”

Just like that, the clinging vines of Mingyu’s anger shrivel away. He’s less upset. Watching Minghao crumble is enough to invoke the deep well of affection within Mingyu, the one which never ran dry even after months of little contact. What he feels for this person has always defied logic, defied pain.

Mingyu reaches over to where Minghao’s hand is clenched into a fist and gently unfolds his fingers one by one. 

“I forgive you,” he says.

Minghao’s expression fissures. He clearly wasn’t expecting that and he nods rapidly. “Okay,” he says, voice so quiet it almost isn’t there. “Okay. Thank you.”

For the first time, Mingyu feels the power dynamic between them shift and solidify. He recognizes they’re standing at a precipice and the decision is his—but he’s got no fucking clue where to go from here.

They sit in silence too long to be comfortable. It would be inappropriate to end the conversation like that, at a wedding, where they would both carry their incompleted catharsis into the party like albatrosses around their necks.

Mingyu decides to do what he does best—follow his heart.

He stands and tugs Minghao’s hand gently. “Do you… want to dance?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


On their third anniversary, Minghao had brought home a bouquet of sunflowers from the local market. Mingyu showed up after work thirty minutes later with an identical vase of identical sunflowers from the same market. 

They laughed about it, called each other predictable and boring and geriatric. Minghao charmed his flowers into lilies instead. They cooked stew and ate dinner on the couch, auto-playing music videos in the background.

When Minghao set their plates aside, he turned to Mingyu and said, “I’d like you to mark me.”

Mingyu thought he misheard. “Like… _mark_ mark you?” He pointed to his wolfy teeth. “Like bite you?”

Tilting his head to the side, Minghao stroked two fingers over the junction of his neck and shoulder. Dragged them slow into the hollow of his collarbone. His eyes went very dark. Mingyu’s breath hitched.

“Yeah,” Minghao said. “Right here.”

And maybe that was the start of their problems— because they took a step that felt natural but definitely needed more discussion first. Werewolf bites were a tricky thing, with partners. Some people are proud to have zero marks and some are proud to have two dozen, depending on your social circle. 

But undoubtedly, a bite had meaning. It was like a surprise proposal. Minghao had never shown interest in that before, though Mingyu secretly fantasized about asking him. 

At the time, Mingyu had looked over at their once-matching flowers on the table and thought, _yes of course I want you mine_.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They haven’t forgotten each other’s bodies.

Mingyu spins Minghao like he was born to do so. They commandeer a corner of the stage, twirling and tugging each other into haphazard ovals, communicating with hip wriggles and waist twists. Minghao is smiling his eyes into crescent moons.

Years ago, they used to dance like this in socked feet through Mingyu’s dorm room, when they were kids in love with no bigger plans.

When the music ends, so does the illusion.

Vernon’s sister takes the mic to make an announcement about the wedding party moving out for final photos and the honeymoon kick-off. That’s Minghao’s cue.

They jerk apart. Mingyu stuffs both hands in his pockets, face hot, hoping Jihoon didn't see this... whatever this was. Rebuilding a friendship with someone important to him. Yeah, that.

Minghao’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. His hair has deflated, but still shines under the lights. “I have to go,” he says.

“Yeah.” Mingyu nods.

“I’ll—I’ll call you?” 

“Sure.” And suddenly they feel like strangers again. Mingyu is developing whiplash. “It was nice to see you, Minghao.”

“You too,” Minghao says, voice thick. “Thank you for the dance.”

Slowly—giving Mingyu plenty of time to move away if he so desires—Minghao leans forward and kisses Mingyu’s cheek. His hand is cool on the other side of Mingyu’s face.

It’s over quickly, but Mingyu will smell jasmine for hours.

He watches Minghao walk away and join the wedding party. Mingyu's hands feel empty again. He thinks he sees Minghao snap his fingers twice… but can find no evidence of magic. His brain is so jumbled from the past hour of emotions, who knows which parts of this fantastical wedding are real at all. He's less certain of his status with Minghao than every before. Are they friends? Are they more? What does he want?

Wading through the crowd towards Jihoon and Junhui, Mingyu casts these thoughts aside. Packets of rice fall from the floating lights. Those closest to Vernon and Seungkwan are already pelting them with rice, almost too playful to be ceremonial. Mingyu happily joins in.

When the husbands—wow, Seungkwan is _married_!—are blessed by the moon and sent through a mysterious honeymoon portal, Mingyu turns to Junhui.

“Are you going back to the hotel now?” Mingyu scrapes a grain of rice from the shell of his ear.

Junhui waggles his eyebrows. “Yeah, why?”

“I have to return your umbrella before you leave.”

“Oh, it’s not mine,” Junhui says. He exchanges a devilish look with Jihoon. “Didn’t you see the initials? The umbrella belongs to Minghao. Give it back to him for me, please.”

This whole weekend, Mingyu has been cursing Boo Seungkwan’s meddlesome antics when he should’ve been cursing Wen Junhui as well.

He points at Jihoon. “Et tu, Brute?”

Jihoon gives him a dead-eyed stare. “I didn’t do shit.”

“You knew,” Mingyu objects, his voice lilting into a whine. But the smile has been planted on his face and it starts growing. 

As dumb as it seems, support from Junhui and Seungkwan makes this reconciliation feel possible. He can appreciate their actions as in his best interest. They want to see him and Minghao happy. Mingyu doesn’t necessarily want their help, but—he respects their motive.

Jihoon shuts him up with another glass of wine as the celebration winds down. The lights start flickering off one by one, signaling that it’s time to snap final photos and move out. Mingyu shivers and stuffs his hands in his pockets… where he feels something strange and veiny.

He makes a startled noise and draws his hands out. Jihoon looks over and smirks.

In Mingyu’s palms rest a lily on the left, a sunflower on the right.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
